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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29348607">Marriage Vows</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/'>Anonymous</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hannibal (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Beautiful People Behaving Badly, Canon-Typical Behavior, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Fake Marriage, Firenze | Florence, Murder, Operas, Orfeo Ed Euridice, Stashing Weapons In Inappropriate Places</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 13:40:13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>10,067</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29348607</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Tension runs high between Bedelia and Hannibal, and they have slightly different ideas regarding how best to alleviate it.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Bedelia Du Maurier/Hannibal Lecter</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>37</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Anonymous, Five Figure Fanwork Exchange 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Marriage Vows</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/asuralucier/gifts">asuralucier</a>.</li>



    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Bedelia lazes on the chaise lounge like a lioness patiently waiting for nightfall. The golden rays of the late afternoon sun filter through the thick glass of the paned windows that line the parlor wall, further gilding an already lavish apartment and affectionately draping itself over the lithe and lethal lines of her body. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Between Bedelia and Hannibal, every action taken within the tight bounds of this apartment is both calculated and purposeful. They circle each other like tightly matched predators, constantly on alert for an attack, each of them not quite willing to strike first. Though they have known each other for years -- first as colleagues and then as friends -- there is a newness to their current situation that can neither be ignored nor disregarded. It has thrown them off-balance and made them wary, but it has also stoked the fire that has always roared between them. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Since the day they first met, they have been attracted to each other. There is no denying that, no pretending otherwise, no turning a blind eye. It lined each and every one of their interactions -- the carefully tilted heads, the thoughtfully parted lips, the elegant trailing of fingers across skin and fabric and the delicate edges of champagne glasses. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Of course, they did not act upon it. There are certain expectations that come alongside a professional relationship -- certain lines that ought never to be crossed. When Hannibal referred her the patient that she would soon kill and became her patient in turn, those boundaries were further complicated, bound on all sides with red tape and ethical screeds. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">In Florence, however, they are two halves of a feigned marriage founded upon borrowed identities. Bedelia did not consume Lydia Fell in the way that Hannibal consumed her husband, Roman -- on principle, she has refused to eat anything with a central nervous system immediately upon having her suspicions about Hannibal's cooking confirmed -- but Lydia Fell, in a way, has consumed her. Lydia is the name and the ring that she wears. She is a wife. She is an academic. She is a runner of errands and a rabid consumer of literature and a willing player in the bedroom. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">No longer are she and Hannibal simply colleagues. No longer are they doctor and patient. They are something else entirely, and neither of them are quite willing to define it. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Bedelia is still resting on the couch when her faux husband arrives home, as still and stunning as a painting done by one of the old masters. The hinges of the door squeak to announce his arrival, a defect that they have avoided fixing solely to give them a measure of warning should the authorities descend upon them. His footsteps, however, are quiet. Hannibal has always been stealthy. Expensive shoes and light steps are a lethal combination, enabling him to pass like a ghost between rooms, steps so featherlight that he might as well be floating. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Bedelia can imagine how fearsome it must be to have him step out of the shadows and claim you as a victim. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She has contemplated that very fate over and over again since the moment she fled the country with him, yet the twin vices of curiosity and culpability keep her bound to him. Despite her fear, she has no interest in parting ways with him. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">If she left, she would be forever deprived of an invaluable source of insight not only into a man who she finds endlessly fascinating, but into herself. There is a darkness in her that mirrors Hannibal's own. It stirs when he touches her, whispers when his breath slides across the delicate skin of her neck, sings when he slips his hand between her legs and masters her body as deftly as he plays his harpsichord. It is not all-consuming -- not yet -- but it is present, all the same. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She feels that darkness shift slightly as he draws nearer to her place in the parlor, responding to his presence with the same alert eagerness with which a dog might greet its owner. It boils just beneath the surface of her skin, lighting a fire in her belly and sending a pink flush across her cheeks and her neck. However, her eyes remain steadily fixed upon the book perched between her fingers. She is only pretending to read, but it is an essential part of the tableau which she has crafted to welcome him home. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It is seduction by way of aesthetic. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Hannibal's shadow falls across her as he draws nearer, stepping between Bedelia and the golden light that seeps through the window, consuming first her feet and then her body, leaving her head for last, until she is entirely cast in the grey pallor of death. She pretends not to notice his presence as she lazily turns another page of her book. The aged paper crinkles as she does so. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The scent of his cologne twists through the air, drifting towards her on a subtle breeze, filling first her nostrils and then her lungs with his woody scent. Her heartbeat pulses in her neck, so swift and pounding that it seems impossible to her that he cannot sense it in the same way that a shark hones in on the electricity of its prey and a disturbance in the water. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Even if he does notice, she doubts that he would tell her. It is advantageous for him to play his knowledge as close to the vest as possible, to sometimes allow her a momentary advantage over him in order to give her the illusion of safety and superiority. Despite her awareness of this technique, she is still susceptible to it. No amount of thought can entirely overwhelm one's most fundamental instincts and impulses. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"Good evening, Bedelia." </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Hannibal's tongue spins the words into a waltz, and Bedelia makes a great show of finishing the page that she is pretending to read before lifting her blue gaze to his. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"I was not expecting you this early." It is a lie, however, it is a lie spoken with the easy nonchalance of truth. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">There is a small twinkle in Hannibal's eye as he says, "I do not think so little of you to believe that you do not know my schedule as thoroughly as you know your own." </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">An almost imperceptible sigh slips between Bedelia's parted lips as she drops her chin and reopens her book to the approximate page that she was pretending to read mere moments ago. "Given that my days consist of very little, my schedule is not all that difficult to know." </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Her inactivity is a matter of both prudence and planning. If one is to be on the run with one of the most wanted men in the world, it would be foolish to not prepare a suitable exit strategy should his plans begin to collapse around their ears. She goes out once a day, making a slow circle of Florence that is designed to make her visible to anyone who knows Hannibal well. She makes predictable purchases from a grocer. She plants herself in full view of the security cameras at the train station. She tilts her head towards the policeman stationed in the square, and she is certain that he now knows her face as thoroughly as he knows his own. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">As far as Hannibal must know, Bedelia is merely a creature of habit, used to being shut away in her grand house alone. Isolation is how she coped with the trauma of murdering her patient. It would only make sense that it would follow her here. She has been subtle and deliberate enough to give him no reason to suspect or monitor her little sojourns. Hannibal may be shrewd, but Bedelia is his equal, if not his superior. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Two fingers slip beneath Bedelia's chin, and she makes no effort to resist as Hannibal steers her attention back to him. He is quite demanding, insofar as partners go, which marks an interesting contrast to the casual aloofness that he projected at the conferences and galas at which they first met. </span>
</p><p class="p2"><span class="s2">Hannibal is a man of perplexing contradictions, and Bedelia wishes to intimately understand each and every one of them. </span>Perhaps one day she might be able to leverage her understanding of him in order to leap to some great achievement in psychiatry -- make a discovery that lies just beyond the horizon -- but for now, she is merely patient, gathering her frustration and her confusion in her arms and holding it close to her chest, lest Hannibal be able to use it against her. </p><p class="p2">Her eyes linger on his for a quiet moment before she demurely drops her gaze towards his touch. Every movement they make while in each other's company is calculated. They are two chess masters, and Florence is their stage. </p><p class="p2">"I take it something is on your mind, Hannibal," Bedelia says after a long pause, giving him invitation to follow through with whatever purpose currently resides at the front of his thoughts and rules his body.  </p><p class="p2">Her gaze flicks up again just in time to catch the small smirk that flirts with the corners of his mouth.</p><p class="p2">"I feel as though I have been neglectful in my role as your husband." </p><p class="p2">Perhaps he expects her to swoon in the way that so many people have done before. Hannibal has always had a powerful presence about him, a charm unique to intelligent psychopaths that lures people into his confidence and wins their favor. Though there is a spark between them, a fire that burns deep within the confines of her belly, a strongly held temptation to succumb to his influence, Bedelia's relationship with him is one of power bargaining. They negotiate for power. Every action and reaction is designed with a goal in mind. She must only swoon if it either furthers her goals or delays her death at his hands. </p><p class="p2">In this case, she thinks it best to pretend to be entirely unmoved. </p><p class="p2">There is scarcely a tremor in her voice or an involuntary flutter of the heart as she remarks, "I find that very few married couples expect an overabundance of passion on days not designated as special occasions." </p><p class="p2">The hand drops away from her chin. </p><p class="p2">Bedelia raises the book, bracing it open with the splayed fingers of her right hand, but she barely has time to skim a single line before the couch shifts beneath Hannibal's weight and the warmth of his body presses against her side. </p><p class="p2">His hand moves again as he tucks a single golden curl behind her ear, baring her neck to the slightly chilled air of the apartment. Bedelia's pulse races just beneath the surface of her skin, and a shudder of anticipation rips through her entire body.</p><p class="p2">Hannibal can feel it. He tightens slightly, like a predator just having spotted a spot of movement in the grass. </p><p class="p2">His mouth is upon her in a moment -- lips and tongue and teeth working at the delicate juncture between jaw and neck. Even in situations where death and murder are absent, his first instinct is always to consume. </p><p class="p2">The book is quite forgotten. It falls into Bedelia's lap -- covers bent and pages spread as her body leans further into his, lashes fluttering as her eyes close, painting the world in utter darkness. Despite her compliance, however, her guard is not down. She is profoundly aware of how violence and lust and sex mix and mingle in Hannibal's mind, how tightly intertwined all such things are in the classic art that he so adores, the stories and tableaus upon which he models his own exploits. </p><p class="p2">But remaining vigilant does not mean that she cannot find pleasure in his attentions. </p><p class="p2">After all, she has needs and desires beyond the realms of all things academic and intellectual.</p><p class="p2">Wicked teeth nip at her skin and a swipe of his tongue soothes the hurt. </p><p class="p2">"We are not a typical married couple, Bedelia," Hannibal murmurs, words buzzing against her skin as he keeps his mouth tantalizingly close. "The resentful husband, the bored wife, such archetypes do not apply to us." </p><p class="p2">Eyes still closed, Bedelia works her mouth around a measured reply. "I would imagine that the fake rings keep them at bay."</p><p class="p2">"Among other things." Amusement ripples through Hannibal's voice as he draws his head away and begins to toy with her hair, curling a single lock around his finger and pulling slightly once he reaches its end. </p><p class="p2">Bedelia opens her eyes and turns to face him, eyebrows raised in a silent question. </p><p class="p2">Hannibal's does not hesitate, though he artfully sidesteps the query. "I procured tickets to the opera tonight. I would be honored if you would join me." </p><p class="p2">Bedelia purses her lips, feigning thought. She would never decline an opportunity to filter through high society events, and Hannibal knows that. They both have a weakness for aesthetic, for pride, for power, for narrative. "What are they performing?" </p><p class="p2">"Orfeo ed Euridice."</p><p class="p2">"One would think that you commissioned the company yourself." </p><p class="p2">The mythical concept of the underworld filters through many of their conversations, an unavoidable metaphor for the journey that takes place whenever someone manages to slip behind Hannibal's veil and glimpses the violent truths that lie beneath. </p><p class="p2">"I assure you that I did not. Such a gesture would likely draw unwanted eyes in our direction.”</p><p class="p2">Bedelia nods — but it is a small whisper of a gesture — a barely perceptible incline of her head. If it did not cause her hair to trail through Hannibal’s loosely parted fingers, she doubts that Hannibal would have noticed it.</p><p class="p2">Though maybe he can simply <em>smell</em> the acknowledgement on her.</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He has always laid claim to a degree of sensory alacrity that lies beyond belief. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What time?” she asks.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Long enough from now that you have time at your fingertips.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Bedelia places the book and her reading charade aside and turns over her shoulder — laying a gentle whisper of a kiss at the corner of Hannibal’s snide mouth. It is a tease of a kiss, a moment spent lingering in the idea of gentle coyness, even though they are both well aware that such behaviors lie beyond both their purviews. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Neither Bedelia nor Hannibal are compassionate creatures. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">They are cruel. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">They are merciless. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">They are violent. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">They are wary. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And yet, they are beautiful.</span>
</p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Bedelia lingers in the bedroom as she readies herself for the evening, relishing the temporary privacy.Hannibal has been temporarily banished to the confines of his home office at her request, and to his credit, he did not protest, though his eyes did conduct a pointed sweep of her body — tracing curves that are clearly visible through the thin silk of her robe — before mounting his retreat. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">In their first safe house in Paris, Bedelia and Hannibal had kept separate bedrooms. It was both a practical gesture and a prudent one. Both of them were trying to define the new nature of their relationship — attempting to reestablish what trust between them might look like, now that they are positioned as coconspirators with slightly conflicting goals, but since moving to Florence, they share both a bed and a bedroom. It was a mutual decision, based on fear and desire and a dozen other things beside. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Bedelia perches in front of a vanity mirror as she pins her curls so that they flatteringly frame her face — sweeping some locks back and other locks forward, until the entire effect is similar to waves breaking on a battered shore — and then slips into a burgundy gown that speaks to blood and wine and secrets. A dramatic slip runs up the side of her skirt, revealing a peek at her leg with every step that she takes. It is less the dress of an ingenue and more the dress of a femme fatale — quite contrary to the image that she plans to paint whenever the authorities catch them — but that decision can be easily explained by claiming that it was Hannibal’s choice and not her own. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It is not beyond societal expectations for psychopaths that they seek to control all aspects of the lives of those around them, curating and dictating every detail, no matter how small. The police will buy that story hook, line and sinker.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">After double-checking to make absolutely sure that the door to the bedroom is locked, she crosses back over to the desk that serves as her vanity, pulling out one of the drawers and tapping the false back that lies behind it, causing a carefully concealed panel to swing open. From its depths, she retrieves a small, delicate, carefully sheathed knife, no more sinister or hefty than a letter opener. In the face of both a notorious serial killer and the combined efforts of INTERPOL, the FBI, and the Italian police, it is not much, but if she is backed into a corner, sinking the blade into something soft and painful might be enough to buy her enough time to run. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She replaces the cover of the hiding place and slides the drawer back into place, before walking to the wardrobe and rooting through several boxes that contain carefully folded and very expensive lingerie, most of which had been bought and chosen by Hannibal, but some of which was procured according to her own tastes and purposes. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It does not take her long to find a garter — white and lacy and entirely unused. She slips it up the leg farthest from the slit so that it might be able to remain hidden throughout the evening, and slips the knife between the fabric and her skin. A couple steps test whether or not it is strong enough to keep the weapon in place for the duration of the evening, and once she is finally satisfied, she allows the skirt of her gown to once again fall to the floor and reenters the parlor. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Hannibal is waiting for her, legs crossed, fingers clasped, and face schooled into stoic patience. It is only when Bedelia sweeps into view that he moves — rising to his feet and inclining his head in her direction. “Shall we go?” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Bedelia, all too conscious of the weight and jostle of the knife against her inner thigh, walks towards the door in reply, grabbing her coat before they step into the slightly chilly breeze that defines Florence in winter. </span>
</p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">As they congregate in the lobby of the opera house, mingling with Hannibal's newfound colleagues and brushing shoulders with their peers in influential and powerful circles in Florence, Bedelia makes a point to say as little as possible. She is aware of the danger that they are in simply by existing within the public eye at this point in time. Hannibal's face is on the FBI's Most Wanted list and plastered on international notices and online message boards. Bedelia, herself, is a highly publicized missing person, often linked to Hannibal Lecter. It is dangerous to draw attention to themselves. It just takes one person to blow their cover and send them packing.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Or worse. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Hannibal, however, seems to be entirely incapable of going unnoticed. He is flamboyant in his mannerisms, pointed in his debates, noticeable in the way that he seems to politely yet firmly dominate every conversation that he enters. Bedelia cannot help but wonder whether he is entirely unaware of the effect and impact he has upon people, or if he is simply to arrogant to think that he can be caught. She tends to lean towards assuming the latter over the former. After all, Hannibal was able to kill and consume dozens upon dozens of people without even emerging as a suspect. He was pulled in as a consultant to work upon the very crimes that he committed. He even went so far as to invite the director of the FBI's Behavior Analysis Unit to his dinner table and feed him meat harvested from dead and missing people. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It is natural that such a man might assume an aura of invulnerability given the circumstances, but those circumstances have changed. The authorities know his name and his face. It is foolish to think that he can hide for any great length of time by simply taking on an assumed name, running away to Europe, and changing his occupation. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It is yet another contradiction to add to the seemingly endless list. Yet another thing to investigate. Yet another thing to be confused and intrigued by in equal measure. Most importantly, it is yet another reason why she cannot simply flee and leave him behind. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">There are still far too many questions in need of answers. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She would never be able to rest, never find satiation, if she abandoned him now, even if abandoning him would secure her long-term safety and alleviate some of her fear. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">While Hannibal is socializing, Bedelia drinks. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She has a fondness for drinking that was only compounded by the days that followed her murder of her patient, and the knowledge that allowing Hannibal to help her cover up her crime granted him power over her that may never be regained, no matter how many valiant efforts she makes to capture his pawns and corner his king. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She is far from drunk, but the glasses of champagne send a pleasant buzz through her body. It makes the idle, profoundly uninteresting chitchat flow in one ear and out the other in a single wave. It makes the time progress a bit faster and her fear feel slightly less oppressive. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Before she knows it, Hannibal appears at her side, as quick and quiet as an apparition, offering her his arm as he says, "We ought to go find our seats, don't you think, Lydia?"</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Bedelia no longer balks in response to the assumed name. Practice has made it as routine as her circles of the square and trips to the grocer's. In public, she is Lydia Fell, a dead woman made alive again, a brunette turned blonde, and bride made victim, and Hannibal is her husband, the illustrious Roman Fell. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">To be themselves would be to tempt fate in a way that not even Hannibal dares to do. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">They progress through the corridors and up the stairs at a leisurely pace. More than once, Bedelia catches Hannibal scanning the people in the crowd, lingering on those who speak too loudly or gesture obscenely or collide with strangers. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She is familiar with this habit. He is hunting the rude. Her lips tighten with slight disgust, but she does not dare speak on the matter, lest she be counted among their ranks herself. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The knife hidden beneath the folds of her dress already flirts with that line. She does not know what his reaction might be should he discover it. It may be amused. He may be angry. It may be the final nail in her coffin. She can hope that he will not notice it. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">After all, he has no reason to. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Rather than resigning them to sitting among the masses -- the pseudo-intellectuals, the young, and the imposters, Hannibal has booked them a private box in which they might be allowed to observe without being observed. The opera, whether it means to or not, recalls the days when people went to entertainment only in part to hear the music and witness the spectacle. Even now, there are those who go to the opera simply to be seen there, to claim it as a credential for prestige or online adoration. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She wonders if the people pointing iphone cameras at the stage or taking selfies from their seats are on Hannibal's list. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Bedelia does none of those things. She merely sinks into the chair that Hannibal gestures to -- the one closest to the stage -- and scans the gleaming and glittering instruments of the orchestra. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She can feel Hannibal's eyes on her. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He has always possessed an unparalleled sense of intensity. He has a way of looking at you that makes you feel as though you are both the most interesting and most desirable person in the world.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">That attention, knowing what she knows about him, has a sinister edge, as well. When Hannibal is concerned, undressing someone with his eyes is just as likely to mean envisioning them naked as it is to imagine them as cuts of meat upon a butcher's block, ready for preparation and consumption. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">To know what his intentions are would mean to ask him and trust that he will not lie. Bedelia, however, does not dare to voice such questions while in his presence. They make her feel vulnerable in a manner that is unfamiliar enough to be vaguely uncomfortable. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When given the choice, Bedelia prefers to be enigmatic over vulnerable. One is more powerful than the other, easier to wield as a weapon. The other is delicate, difficult to forge and easy to get wrong. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It is only once the lights dim and the music begins that she feels his attentions move away from her and towards the performers on the stage. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Bedelia does her best to lose herself in the costumes and the music and the narrative -- throwing herself into the art and majesty while she attempts to ignore the reasons that Hannibal might have for choosing to attend this opera, in particular. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Partway through the first act, Hannibal's hand moves towards her leg and begins to conduct the beat against her thigh. Bedelia is enormously grateful for that fact that the leg nearest to him is not the one bearing the knife. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">At both act intermissions, Hannibal disappears, only to return with two glasses of red wine. He hands Bedelia one and keeps the other for himself. When she murmurs her thanks, he acknowledges her with only a slight tilt of his head and a fleeting wink. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It is halfway through the third act when Hannibal finally draws Bedelia into his lap. Curls are brushed away from her shoulder, baring her throat to the air and his will. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">A line of kisses trace the curve of her shoulder. This time, there are no teeth. Bedelia does not dare look over his shoulder at him. Her eyes remain firmly fixed upon the stage and its performers. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Though the box is private, she is well aware that others can see in, that part of the game in being intimate here is behaving in a manner so impassively that they do not draw bored and wandering eyes in their direction. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">However, if eyes did happen to turn their way and catch a glimpse of that which they ought not to, she would not mind. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">That, too, is part of the thrill of it all. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It is a gamble. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">A cursed bargain. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Not unlike that which lies between herself and the man at her back. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The kisses stop as his mouth moves towards her ear and his hand hovers near her hip, at the place where the slit in her dress begins. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"May I?" </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The question curls and snaps and slithers. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It is so simple, and yet, so complicated. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">There is a breath. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The opera continues -- ignorant to the power plays taking place in Box 5. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Her legs part, and she guides his hand beneath his dress with her own, careful to avoid contact with the hidden knife.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It is then that he breaks out his teeth, biting the soft flesh of her ear. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">A gasp slips past her parted lips as his fingers slip inside her. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He is composing his own aria in time with the tragedy unfolding on the stage before them, as diligent in his work as an expert craftsman. He knows her body well, and he is a gifted and attentive partner. He responds to every movement, every shiver, every hitched breath and whispered sigh. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The world blurs and fades. The opera, as impressive as it is, pales in comparison to the tableau that Hannibal is creating within and without her, a private performance with an audience of one. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Influence works best when the person who is being influenced is unaware, as Bedelia had once warned Will Graham and Jack Crawford, and whenever she permits Hannibal to possess her body and do as he wills, she becomes less and less aware. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She is pliable. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She is flexible. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She is... </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He draws her to the cliff's edge, fingers expertly working at the cluster of nerves that are always her undoing, pressing against the inside of her body in a manner that makes her feel at once full and ecstatic, and then he stops. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">There is a plea in her lips and a whine in her throat, borne of anticipation unfulfilled. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The music creeps back in, triumphant, hopeful, speaking to the climax that he has denied her. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Bedelia shifts against him, taking control of her own pleasure, but he chastizes her with a quiet scoff spoken directly into her ear. "Be still." </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She obliges, but every cell of her body itches for release.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Her relishes this moment of power for a long, indulgent moment before resuming his work. Her heart pounds, her body is electric, and as he once again leads her to the edge, he leans in towards her ear again. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"Say my name."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She is not so far gone to forget that they are in public, and so she responds with the name that Lydia must use, the name that keeps them hidden in plain sight. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"Roman."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">There is a growl deep in his throat. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The knife shifts as he bumps it with his wrist, buying her a moment of panic and taking her out of the moment enough to gasp, "Hannibal." </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">There is sweat on her body, glimmering in the reflected lights from the stage -- blue and red and purple. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">His legs move, pressing against the inside of one of her feet as he spreads her legs further. A shudder races through her. She feels exposed, vulnerable, hungry. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"Again." </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">There is another finger now, just as manipulative as its mate.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It takes her a moment to detangle her tongue and her clouded mind enough to speak his name a second time, a sound caught somewhere between breathless whisper and moan. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"Hannibal."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Finally, he allows her to climax. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She burns for him, with him, as the waves of ectasty rip through her. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It is everything she can do to maintain a semblance of composure, though no one observing them would doubt what is taking place below the railing. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Orpheus turns. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Hannibal turns, too, and very suddenly removes her from his lap, sliding her back onto her own chair as he moves swiftly towards the back of the box. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">There is a whisper of heavy fabric curtains. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Bedelia takes a second to gather her breath, fighting against her body and the intensity of the moment, and then, she, too, turns -- still perfect curls tracing over the glistening skin of her chest and shoulders. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">There is a young man at the door wearing a slightly nervous expression. Though the man is also tall, Hannibal seems to loom over him, creating a presence so completely dominant that it is nigh impossible to bargain with. Behind the stranger's glasses, his eyes are guilty, and his lips are parted in an apology. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Bedelia takes advantage of Hannibal's nervous apology to adjust the lay of the knife that Hannibal had jostled, guiding the garter higher up her leg. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"I'm so sorry, sir," the man says in quick, desperate spurts, swallowing air between his words in heady gulps. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Bedelia, heart still pounding and legs still trembling, eases herself out of the chair and comes to stand at Hannibal's side. She moves slowly, deliberately, slightly bumping up against his torso as if to remind him that this is no place for a murder. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">There are too many eyes. Too much evidence. Too much culpability. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Hannibal does not look at her. His attention is entirely fixed upon the man who interrupted them. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"I walked into the wrong box. I wasn't here very long. I promise." His eyes dart between Bedelia and Hannibal, and perhaps it is merely the all-devouring orgasm speaking, but Bedelia thinks that the stranger is not altogether bad looking. The fear, of course, is unappealing, but his body is tight and his face is attractive and --</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She suddenly catches Hannibal's eyes on her, registers a minuscule shift in his expression that would have been entirely unnoticed by anyone else. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It is a change made mostly from behind the veil. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It is possessive. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It is jealous. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It is dangerous. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And Bedelia thinks that, perhaps, she ought not to have gazed upon the man at all. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Hannibal turns his gaze back to his captive. "As I am sure you are aware, that is precisely what someone who has been there for some time would say." </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The man flounders. "I promise, I --" </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">A dagger-sharp glare from Hannibal cuts the claim short. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The voyeur has been caught, and there is a knot deep in Bedelia's stomach that knows that a gruesome fate awaits him. A kind part of her begs her to get close to him, to sink her nails into his arm, pull him close, and demand that he run as far away from this city as he can, and never return. The deeper, larger, more dominate part of her, however, allows herself to withdraw and become an observer.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It is in these moments in which Hannibal is at his most essential, his most quixotic, his most elusive. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It is these moments that she most wishes to understand. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It is these moments that offer her insight into human nature as a whole, more insight than any single person in her field has ever been allowed to hold. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And so as she surrendered to his touch, she allows Hannibal do as he will with this stranger. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"You need not apologize, dear friend," Hannibal says, turning on a dime and layering on the charm. Bedelia can still see the tension in his jaw and the wall of hardened resolve in his eyes, but it is subtle enough to go unnoticed by those who do not know him as well as she does. "I am well aware that my wife and I have always put on quite a show."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">There is a thoughtful pause, and his teeth work at his lips as he tilts his head like a predatory bird and asks, "Did you enjoy it?" </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The man flushes. A hard swallow forces his throat to bob up and town. Bedelia can practically sense the nervousness radiating off of him in waves as he desperately tries to figure out the correct answer to a question that he has obviously never been asked before. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">A question that he never expected to be asked. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Eventually, he nods. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Hannibal smiles, a proud, arrogant, smug smile. "If you are interested in joining us, my wife and I would love to have you for dinner tomorrow." </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It takes every ounce of Bedelia's control to keep from averting her eyes. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">At her back, the opera ends. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The audience erupts in applause. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">No one in Box 5 -- not the ticketholders nor the intruder -- claps. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The man finds his tongue again. This time, he stammers slightly. "I would be honored."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Hannibal reaches into the breast pocket and pulls out a slim, embossed card. It contains his stolen name, his title at the museum, and a phone number. "Call me there tomorrow morning, and I will give you the address."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The man nods dumbly, as he takes the card in his shaking fingers. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Hannibal takes a step backward, giving him access to the door. He knocks against Bedelia, and perhaps it is a coincidence but she feels his hand press against the knife hidden away beneath her dress as he checks his balance. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The man leaves without another word, only a backwards glance at Bedelia -- nervous and excited all at once. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"You did not have to," Bedelia says, conscious of how her voice hits the air now that the soft blanket of music has fled the space. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Hannibal merely looks down at her, raising his eyebrows. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"He heard my name." </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Not even Bedelia can think of an argument that might save someone from such a crime. </span>
</p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Night in their shared apartment is quiet. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Bedelia rinses the smell of sweat and fear and opera house off of herself in a bath so long that she starts to wonder whether or not she might be able to drown here. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">By the time she enters the darkened bedroom and slips beneath her side of the covers, Hannibal is already there. The moonlight that slips through the window highlights the sharp angles of his face, the imposing, regal features that have so long occupied Bedelia's preoccupations. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The knife is still strapped to her leg. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She has not had a chance to return it to its hiding place, and she dares not leave it anywhere that Hannibal may find. There is another secret cubbyhole in the bath, but it is already filled with the drugs and syringes that she will need if she ever wishes to be exonerated from her participation in Hannibal's crimes and aiding and abetting a fugitive. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"Did you enjoy the opera, Bedelia?" Hannibal asks, with a casualness that seems to ignore both the public sex and the invitation to a deadly dinner. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Bedelia walks the same line of nonchalance as she replies, "I did." </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Hannibal hums, turning his eyes towards the window. Bedelia's gaze follows his curiously, but upon seeing nothing, she lays down and turns on her side, welcoming the sweet solace of sleep. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Hannibal places a hand on her side, running his thumb lightly over the silken fabric of her nightshirt before saying, "Wear white tomorrow." </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She does not bother to ask why. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She is certain that he will not answer her. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Sleep sweeps her away on a breath of a sigh, and she is grateful for the blissful lack of thought that awaits her in unconsciousness. </span>
</p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The next afternoon, Bedelia drapes herself in white, as she was asked to do. She does not bother with the same degree of formality of opera wear, but she does still maintain an aura of professional elegance, the way she would have were she still in Baltimore, attending a dinner with a selection of her colleagues. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The white dress is one that Hannibal had bought her. It is a gauzy thing -- chiffon over silk -- and it gives her the distinct impression of floating through the world. She feels like a ghost. Or a virgin being dressed for sacrifice. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Terror and anxiety bite bitterly at the back of her throat at the thought, and she does her best to swallow them back. She doubts that Hannibal would dispose of her on the same night that he disposes of a stranger. He would want it to be intimate. He would want it to be secret. He would want it to be a private moment between the two of them. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It is scant comfort, and not enough to persuade her to abandon the knife. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She slips the garter up her leg again and slides the knife beneath. A spin in the mirror tells her that it is invisible. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Hannibal opens the door at the tail end of the spin, leaning against the doorway as he gazes at her, the fingers of one hand working at the calloused and muscled palm of the other as he bides his time. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Bedelia catches his reflected gaze in the mirror, and she flushes slightly. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"Do not stop on my account," Hannibal comments, pushing himself off of the doorframe and taking a few measured steps nearer. He smells of the meal that he has been preparing since the early hours of the morning -- of herbs and spices and oil and blood. "You look radiant, Bedelia." </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She busies herself with adjusting a pin in her hair in order to give herself something to do. "Thank you." </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">There is a pause as their eyes meet in the mirror again. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Hannibal does not speak, seemingly awaiting a question that they both know is bound to come at some point. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">After a steeling breath, Bedelia finally dares to ask it. "What part are you expecting me to play tonight, Hannibal?" </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Surprise creases his brow and paints itself upon Bedelia's face in turn. Evidently, she had guessed wrong. That was not the question that he expected to hear. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Still, once the shock has passed, he answers it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"I know better than to expect anything from you, Bedelia." </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nerves flutter in her heart, anxious and demanding and near overwhelming. Critique from Hannibal is perceived as dangerous. It makes Bedelia think that she might be disposable, that she might no longer be desirable for him, that she might be killed and cast aside. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Even in her fear, however, her impeccable wit does not fail her. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I thought that you said that we were beyond the archetypes of resentful husband and bored wife.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Despite himself, a flicker of amusement flirts with the set of Hannibal’s face. “I did indeed. I did not mean my words as a slight, Bedelia. It is merely obvious that you take less joy in these dinners than I do, and the fact that I must prepare you your own plate only compounds the issue.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Bedelia turns so that she no longer faces Hannibal’s reflection, but the man in the flesh. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">They are close. The air between them is electric. She can feel the warmth of his breath as it passes from his mouth to hers. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I apologize for being an inconvenience.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Hannibal is swift to correct her. “Inconvenient is, perhaps, not the word that I would use.” He fishes for the right one. “You are still guarded, still afraid of who you are. As long as that remains true, there will always be an uncertainty between us, and you will continue to be a bystander in these plays, rather than a participant.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Taking one life does not mean that I wish to be a serial killer, Hannibal.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">His smile deepens, becoming not simply a matter of amusement, but one of pride and adoration. “There has been a darkness in you since the very first moment we met. It is exceptional. I only wish to see you flourish. You can grow beyond the restrictions that this world seeks to place upon you, Bedelia. You can be so much more, if only you take a step forward and allow yourself to take the stage.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Bedelia remains unmoved. She has heard many variants of this speech before, each of them clothed in metaphor and allegory. “Then why dictate what I am wearing?” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">This time, Hannibal wraps his tongue around a half-truth. It is badly hidden, and she suspects that he has done so on purpose, intending to dangle the temptation in front of her, to lure her deeper into his sway and his plans. “Because I am a selfish man who sometimes wishes to see his wife in clothes that he prefers.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">With that, he retreats. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The warmth flees the room with him, and Bedelia is suddenly, painfully aware of his absence. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Her heartbeat pounds in her ears, and goosebumps raise along her arms and the back of her neck. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She does not know if he wants her to chase him, but she remains where she is. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Best not to gamble on a day like this. </span>
</p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When the knock on the door echoes through the apartment, night has fallen and the table has been laid. Bedelia is already deep enough into a bottle of expensive wine that her heart has begun to dull. She dares not to feel any sort of pity or compassion for the man who will soon find his death at Hannibal’s hands. Feeling pity would only compel her to kill him first, to put him out of his misery before he even knows that he is in it. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Most deaths at Hannibal’s hands are swift once the act happens — he has explained before that this is a method intended to avoid tainting the meat — but the lead-up is both lengthy and agonizing. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Hannibal’s dinners are extravagant, multiple course affairs, meant to be consumed over a matter of hours. Conversation with the already damned only ever serves to make them that much longer. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">This dinner is no exception. Against her will, Bedelia learns the victim’s name, though she soon does her best to forget it. She learns of his ambitions to be a composer of music and a biographer of musicians. Apparently, he currently holds a job as an archivist — organizing and cataloguing the storied history of music within the walls of the city that has become their home. Throughout the meal, he does not seem to feel the tension that Bedelia feels, does not seem to pick up on the predatory gleam in Hannibal’s eyes, does not resist as dessert is served and the conversation turns to sex. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Are you married?” Hannibal asks the man as he carefully spears a date with his fork and deposits it in his mouth. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The man laughs, as though it is the most ridiculous question that he has ever heard. “Do you think I would’ve been allowed to attend this dinner alone if I was? I may be a half-decent actor, but no one would be able to miss the amount of blushing that I’ve done since last night, and I know myself well enough to know that the second I left the theater, I would’ve been spilling my guts with a guilty conscience.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Is it your proclivity for voyeurism that keeps you away from a long term relationship?” Hannibal asks. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Bedelia coughs. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Hannibal’s eyes turns to her as he raises his eyebrows, as if daring her to force him to abandon the current line of questioning.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She does not dare. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The man, ignorant to the unspoken exchange, babbles his way through an answer. “Not at all. If anything, I’d probably make sure to find a partner who shares it. For a while, the joke among friends was probably that I would find my soulmate at an orgy.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Bedelia puts her fork down beside her plate — her mouth suddenly dry and her tongue leaden. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The man continues, “Though I would imagine that people like you prefer to keep things smaller.” There is a pause as Hannibal patiently awaits whatever tortuous words might next flow from their guests mouth, obviously revealing in both the attention and the openness. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">There are some dinners Bedelia has been present at where Hannibal has had to fish for rudeness, to set up moments in which an ignorant victim might stumble into a carefully set trap designed to snare them in a moment of deadly discourtesy. This dinner is not one of those. The man is clueless and far too open, both with details of his own life and his assumptions of the lives of others. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I must admit —“ the man dabs at his face with a napkin before continuing, though he misses a smear of compote on the corner of his mouth, “I was surprised to be invited here. People like you do not often strike me as the threesome type.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">His eyes linger on Bedelia as he speaks, and she knows that it is a judgement mostly cast upon her, rather than upon Hannibal. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It is true, but that makes it no less rude. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Hannibal exhales through his nose before wiping his own face clean. It is a needless gesture, given that unlike their guest, Hannibal is an incredibly dignified and elegant diner, but it serves its purpose in signaling the end of the meal. He is the first to rise to his feet. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The legs of his chair slide across the marble floors with a groan that seems to shake Bedelia to her very core. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It is a death knell, but not for her. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Though she has seen Hannibal flirt with the idea of sleeping with their victims before killing them, Bedelia has always stood her ground on the matter, and he has respected it. Sleeping with the soon to be dead is a line too far, even for her. It is too participatory, too intimate, too undignified. She prefers to expose herself to the killer, rather than his prey. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">On this occasion, however, he does not even silently propose the idea with lingering eye contact or a nudge of feet beneath the table. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It would seem that Hannibal wants to sleep with this man little more than she does herself, and she does not blame him. This dinner was an awkward and uncomfortable affair, and she does not doubt that any proceedings in the bedroom would also be awkward and uncomfortable. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Indeed,” Hannibal says, effortlessly picking up the conversation, even after a lengthy pause. “However, I do not feel that this is the night to indulge in such things. I have underestimated how exhausting it is to follow a long night at the opera with a dinner. You understand.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It is not a question. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The man is expected to understand. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Indeed, he is almost forced to, bound by the sheer finality of the sentence. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He nods. “I did appreciate the invitation, and the meal. I do not believe I have had anything so fine in quite a while. Though good food abounds in our fine city, much of it lies outside of the means of a mere archivist.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Hannibal murmurs his agreement. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Bedelia stands, intending to help Hannibal finish tidying the table, and thus excuse herself from whatever violence may yet unfold within the walls of the apartment. Hannibal, however, intercepts her before she has a chance to pick up any glass besides her own. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Lydia, my dear, would you mind helping our guest fetch his coat? I will be with you in a moment.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Bedelia swallows. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It is one of Hannibal’s carefully laid pitfalls. He knows that she is very careful not to engage in rudeness around him, that she fears his wrath just as deeply as she fears anything else. She cannot decline without being rude, even though she knows that he is maneuvering her into position for the final kill. He intends for her to at least be a witness, if she cannot be a participant. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She takes a moment to pour herself another generous glass of wine, and drains it in a single gulp. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Liquid courage is not unwelcome in a situation such as this. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She glances up at the guest with a small, forced smile. “Let me walk you to the door, then.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The stranger falls into step slightly behind her. The footfalls of his shoes against the floor are almost imperceptible when compared to the clicking of her stilettoed heels. Her steps are half as slow as her racing pulse — one measure among dozens as she does her best to keep the rising fear at bay. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When she reaches the door, she grabs his coat, holding it out for him as he slips his arms into the sleeves. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Hannibal comes up beside them, wiping his hands dry with a cloth that he took from the kitchen. Bedelia cannot help but watch his fingers. One at a time, he dries them, as if aware of his attention. It is with no small effort that she finally averts her eyes. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Thank you again for having me,” the stranger says with a smile. He looks between his host with the same enthusiasm as a well-trained dog, awaiting praise and an invitation back. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Bedelia keeps looking at the floor. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“The pleasure was ours, my friend,” Hannibal replies. “Indeed, it is a pity that you must leave.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He slings the cloth over his shoulder and takes a step closer to Bedelia. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She is aware that he is already putting the pieces of this final climax into place, but she does not know what form it will take. She only knows that it will be both dramatic and self-indulgent — two vices which Hannibal possesses in spades. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The guest inclines his head at Bedelia in a smallll bow of thanks, and she raises her eyes from the floor to meet his. He holds out his hand, and, after a small beat of hesitation, she gently places her hand in his.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Hannibal also moves, but not towards their guest. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He reaches through the gauzy slit of Bedelia’s dress, and frees the knife from its place in her garter so quickly that she doesn’t have an opportunity to prevent it. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Not that it would have mattered if she did. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The guest raises Bedelia’s hand to his lips, planting a wet kiss upon it even as Hannibal steps behind him and draws the knife across his throat, slicing through the primary artery. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Blood rains from the wound. It coats Bedelia in its silky warmth. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">His hand falls away, but even when she takes a step backward, she is not safe. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It takes him a long time to fall, and a longer time to bleed out. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crimson pools of blood mark a stark contrast to the white and grey swirls of the marble, and Bedelia is aware that she, herself, is no longer draped in white. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Hannibal meant to paint her with the victim’s death, and he succeeded. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Desperately trying to keep her composure, she takes a step backward and swipes her tongue nervously across her lips, tasting the bitter stain of blood that lingers there. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It is the first taste of meat that she has had since she fled to Europe, and it turns her stomach. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She wavers slightly on her feet, balance hanging by a thread. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Her heels are too high for the faint of heart, and though she usually prides herself upon her stone-cold impassive approach, the scent and taste and feel of blood is overwhelming. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Hannibal catches her. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The point of the knife nicks the inside of her arm, and she is vaguely aware of her blood mixing with the blood of the victim that lies prone in the hallway. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It seems only fitting that she be cut by her own knife, after it had already been used so cruelly against her. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Gently but firmly, Hannibal guides her to a chair, seemingly unbothered by the prospect of bloodstains on the furniture. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He slides a hand along her jaw and guides her face upwards until her eyes meet his. She is painfully aware of the lack of blood upon him, of the expertness with which he had committed the kill, the dominance with which he swung their ever-present chess match in their favor. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Do not faint on me now, Bedelia. You are above such things."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She takes a deep breath and closes her eyes for a moment. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When she opens them again, her walls are back up. Her cruel armor is donned. The shakiness is not gone, but it has been forced out of sight, where Hannibal might not be able to exploit it. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Content that she is no longer a danger to herself, Hannibal presses the murder weapon back into her hand, curling her bloodstained fingers around the handle and placing a kiss on her knuckles. When he raises his head again, his lips are stained red. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He looks like a harbinger of death. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">A creature of nightmares. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And yet, that unkillable part of her — the darkness that has so long lurked in the depths of her heart and the pit of her stomach — rises to meet him. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“If you are going to bring a knife to a party, Bedelia, be sure to use it.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Bedelia does not speak. She can only nod. She spent so long keeping the knife as a tightly guarded secret, she is shocked to have it back in her hands. Hannibal must be aware that she intended to use it against him just as surely as she might have intended to use it on any bounty seeker who dared to threaten them. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">But even so, he must either be so unconcerned by the prospect that he does not care, or so certain of his ability to beat her in a fight that it does not matter. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He drops to her knees and sweeps her blood soaked skirts aside, baring the traitorous garter beneath. Somehow, it is still white — as pure and unblemished that it might as well have never played host to a murder weapon at all. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He grins at the sight of it, and hooks a single finger beneath it, then lets go with a snap. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The impact buzzes through her, and she is suddenly aware of the bareness of her legs and the intensity of his attentions and the all-consuming hunger of that deep, dark part of her. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Best to use these for their intended purpose in the future, I think,” Hannibal remarks. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">A smile slips across those stained lips. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It is enough to make Bedelia temporarily stop thinking about the corpse by the door, the blood coating her entire body, the ghost of a dead man’s kiss on the back of her hand. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Hannibal’s charisma is a black hole, consuming everything else in the universe until there is nothing else left in the universe but him. Surely there must be worse people in the world that she might have fallen for, but she cannot think of them, and she dares not to think about how terrible her willing participation in his crimes makes her in the eyes of others. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Still on his knees, Hannibal leans forward. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">His teeth graze her thigh as he takes the garter in his teeth and begins to tug it down her leg. It is a needlessly delicate affair. He takes his time. He lingers at her knee, allowing his breath to stroke the delicate hollow of the joint. He braces his hands behind her calves and runs his fingers in idle circles that speak to the mastery that he exhibited the night before, in those stolen moments at the opera, before they had been so rudely interrupted. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He takes her foot in both hands as he eventually guides it free of her entirely. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The body by the door is growing colder by the second, but Bedelia is on fire. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Still holding the garter in his mouth, Hannibal allows her skirts to fall, as if it is the curtain marking the close of an act. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He deposits it in her lap with a charming nonchalance that speaks to a triumphant groom having both impressed and scandalized all those in attendance at a wedding reception. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Bedelia is reminded once again of the rings on their fingers. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Though they did not take wedding vows, there are several unspoken promises and dangerous secrets that run between them, forming a bond that is stronger than any real marriage could possibly be. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">They respect each other immensely, and that is far more than any properly married couple might be able to say. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Indeed, it is far more than she suspects that the real Lydia and Roman Fell might have said, were they still on this side of the dirt. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Unconcerned with the mess of blood, Bedelia takes Hannibal’s face in her hands, and leaning forward, she plants a single, soul-consuming kiss on his lips. The blood is acrid in her mouth, but the sweetness of his tongue cuts through it, leaving it a mere afterthought. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It is not a kiss of gratitude, nor a kiss of victory. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It is not a celebration of the life that Hannibal stole or an acknowledgement of the grandeur of his actions. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It is a confirmation of the promises that they have already made to each other. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I will still keep your secrets. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I will still tell your lies. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">If we are caught, I will do what I can to minimize the damage. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When she finally draws back, the parting is brief. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">With hunger in his eyes and intention lining every muscle of his body, Hannibal stands, takes her in the arms the way a newly married husband might carry his wife across the threshold of their first home, and carries her into the bedroom. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When they’re finally through, there are clothes on the floor. There is blood in the bed and on them both. Sweat glimmers on their bodies and moonlight bathes them in its silverly glow. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Knowing what you know now, would you still have held a pistol to the devil’s head and run away with him?” Hannibal asks in the casually theatrical tone that is particular to him and him alone. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">This time, Bedelia does not have to think upon her answer before she says it. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
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